


We Didn't Start The Fire - But We Definitely Watched It Burn!

by CookieCatSU



Series: The Bub Chronicles [6]
Category: HLVRAI - Fandom, Half-Life VR But The AI Is Self Aware
Genre: 5 times Bubby was an idiot, 5+1 Fic, All the time, Benrey is incredibly not helpful, Bubby encourages this, Bubby has fire powers, Bubby is a pyromaniac, Bubby-centric, Gordon is trying to decide how ticked he should be, Joshua's a little gremlin in this, M/M, Tommy doesn't show up till near the very end, a loveable gremlin, and one time he was less of an idiot, and uses them incorrectly, but a gremlin nonetheless, it's just a fact, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:54:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25960906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CookieCatSU/pseuds/CookieCatSU
Summary: 5 times Bubby used his pyromancy for idiocy. And one time he didn't.Or; A highlight reel of how petty Bubby can be… until it isn't.
Relationships: Bubby/Dr. Coomer (Half-Life)
Series: The Bub Chronicles [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825966
Comments: 41
Kudos: 169





	1. Hit and Ran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coffee is, ultimately, the downfall of every self respecting scientist. As is the way of the world.

He's escaped his tube: managed to get out on good behavior. Now he traverses the dark, stuffy halls of the Biological Experiments department, alone, lab coat resting on his shoulders, hands shoved in his pockets with thumbs sticking from the creases, just casually walking amongst his peers, like he's normal. One of them.

No one pays him much attention, thankfully, as he slides into the breakroom. 

There'd been reports of someone, setting fires throughout the Biological Department. One of his handlers glared at him, as they issued the warning that he be careful: can't have another prototype ending up dead like all the others - bad for business - and all that crap. Bubby just nods, expression fauxly innocent, because how _dare_ they assume he had anything to do with that (and they can't argue, because it's not as if they've caught him _doing_ anything).

They'll never catch him, at this rate.

There's another scientist in the cramped little room with him, mid forties, looking scruffy and hagrid, coffee cup clutched so tight his knuckles are turning white from the pressure. Bubby ignores him.

He's got a fucking mission, so there's really no time for small talk. He steps up to the coffee machine, and grabs a paper cup from the cabinets above him. The smell of fresh coffee brewing is tantalizing. He finishes making his coffee and throws a lid on the top of the cup.

He's already halfway to the door when he presses his fingers to his temple, and the coffee maker in the corner of the room immediately bursts into flames, red hot, already licking up toward the ceiling. The stench of burnt plastic is certain to follow.

Yeah! Take that Black Mesa.

Then he promptly flees the scene, cackling.

"Oh god. Sweet mother of jesus!"

And he just laughs harder, doubling over ten feet past the door, coffee cup still in hand.

* * *

"I heard someone lit up the breakroom" Dr. Coomer, Bubby's newest, and perhaps most annoying lab partner, states later that same day, before looking up from the velocity equations he'd been working on with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

"Do you happen to know anything about that, Bubby?" And yeah, he sounds smug, or amused. Or both.

That's part of Dr. Coomer's problem, of course. The little bastard doesn't know how to mind his own business.

Bubby continues to sip his coffee, staring at his own whiteboard diligently, "Can't say that I do. Some dumb ass probably just split some cyclohexane or something"

Dr. Coomer laughs. "Yes, well, there are a lot of dumbasses working here, aren't there? Why, near everyone is a dumbass compared to you, Bubby!"

He laughs again.

Bubby grumbles, annoyed by all the distractions, and turns toward the other whiteboard stood up in front of him, wooden pencil held between his teeth, enamel splintering from the sharp toothed pressure. He places the gnawed up pencil back behind his ear and snatches up a marker, and that's when Dr. Coomer spots the coffee cup in his left hand, almost as incriminating as a spot of soot on his cheek would have been. 

Bubby freezes. When he finally turns to face Dr. Coomer, he has half a mind to threaten him.

But he's just sitting there. 

And then he winks at Bubby.

A week passes. Bubby doesn't hear anything about the incident from his handlers. He receives no punishment.

Dr. Coomer winks at him again, when they bump into each other on the way to the cafeteria. 

"It isn't getting too hot up there, is it?" He jokes, gazing up at Bubby, and he laughs uproariously, but that's it. It goes no further.

And Bubby considers for the first time that maybe, just maybe, Dr. Coomer isn't _such_ a bad guy, after all.

He might even be likable. Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a side note, Bubby absolutely knows everything about all things flammable.


	2. I'm Above Toasters, Okay?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bubby fights a toaster, and wins? Possibly.

Harold's looking at him in blank eyed disbelief, legs dangling off his stool. They're hunched together in the staff cafeteria, eating the 'delicious' Black Mesa meatloaf that'd spurred on this whole discussion, cheap plastic spoons twirling.

"This food is atrocious" Bubby had muttered, poking at it with a look of pure disgust, complaining.

Harold looked on, amused. Finally,

"Do you think you can do better, Bubby?" And his eyebrows were raised, expression unusually smug, in a way Coomer almost never was.

"As a matter of fact, I know I can"

"Really?" Harold replies, and he's laughing at him.

It makes Bubby's blood boil. Harold has no faith in him. Gah.

Bubby hisses in annoyance, and slams his spoon down on his tray. "I _can_ cook…" He pauses, and allows himself to smile, "And I'll prove it"

Harold grins at him, looking rather amused.

"Of course, Bubby. How about…" Dr. Coomer glances at his watch with a little hum, "tonight at six? At my dorm?"

"Oh um yeah, yeah. Then we can settle this" Bubby replies. 

"It's a date, then!"

* * *

Bubby _can_ cook. Tonight is just an off night, but Bubby absolutely can cook. 

Harold just won't stop distracting him with his silly humming, and the laughing, and then he wants to start talking about constellations like he doesn't know Bubby will get off on a tangent. Because he absolutely will.

He does manage to get two plates on the table without burning anything up, or setting anything on fire he hadn't meant to.

Harold smiles up at him as he places a plate down on the table in front of him. Bubby's stomach does a couple flips, and he retreats to his own chair, so the other man can't see how flustered he is. 

"What are we having tonight? It smells delicious"

But Dr. Coomer hasn't looked down yet. He's still gazing at Bubby, fingers resting atop the fork he hasn't picked up yet.

Bubby still has a hard time getting used to that, to how attentive Dr. Coomer can be sometimes. It's disorienting, because Harold often treats Bubby like he's the only other person in the universe, and no one's done that before. Bubby loves it, but it still catches him off guard, all the same.

"I made spaghetti" Bubby replies, and he covers his mouth so Harold can't hear the way his voice cracks, just so. "You can never go wrong with spaghetti"

Harokd takes a bite, and his mouth falls open. He takes a moment to regain his composure, before looking up at Bubby with the most amazed expression he's ever seen. He puts his fork down, and clears his throat.

"I must admit I was wrong, Bubby. You are a fine cook" He beams, "This is delicious, absolutely scrumptious, scrumptilious?... um, you get the idea"

Bubby barks out a laugh, "Scrumptilious?"

"Yes, not my best work" Harold shakes his head, laughing. "But, besides that, perhaps you should be cooking the meals for the cafeteria?"

"I'm a scientist, Harold. My name is Dr. Bubby. I'm not a fucking lunch lady"

Harold giggles, and Bubby can feel his heart soar.

"Just consider it"

Bubby rolls his eyes, "Yeah, okay. But don't expect me to wear an apron"

"That'd be a sight!" Harold exclaims.

And soon they're both laughing.

* * *

Bubby misses Black Mesa. 

Okay, not really, obviously. He didn't miss _Black Mesa._ They treated him like shit, and Bubby's first thought when they came to mind was almost always that they could kiss his ass. He was happy to be rid of them, to have that part of his life behind him, and he never wanted to return to that godforsaken facility, but that doesn't make him immune to the sudden spur of nostalgia, here and there. 

They all have flaws. Even perfect beings like Bubby.

And there are things about Black Mesa Bubby missed. He had a few good memories there, interspersed amongst all the bad.

Their dorm rooms had always been too small for appliances, beyond the standard microwave and fridge, and there isn't much food to be made with a microwave. That meant whenever Bubby went over to Coomer's dorm room, he cooked for the both of them (Coomer never went to Bubby's dorm, mostly because Bubby hadn't had one for a long time, and by the time he did they both thought, we have a system, why change it?).

Now they have their own house, and Harold is adamant on keeping around appliances like toasters and panini presses and waffle irons, and Bubby is… less than thrilled about it.

He isn't really sure why. _It isn't a big deal_ , he thinks, as he gazes out at their empty 2 bedroom townhouse. Gazing at shiny hardwood floors, gazing through the foyer, into the sitting room and all the way up the stairs, because all the rooms are interconnected and there are no walls.

Dr. Coomer grins, clapping his hands together excitedly, and starts prattling on about all of the things they can fit in here, because _it's so spacious!_

Then Harold is mentioning getting some appliances, to fill some of the empty space, and Bubby shrugs and tells him to do whatever he wants. No big deal.

And it's fine. It really is. 

It doesn't bother Bubby. And then Gordon walks in with that damn toaster, and reality really sets in. Then Bubby is pissed, because their house is being **invaded**.

Bubby glares at the toaster, eyes slit behind his glasses.

"I need your help, Gordon"

Gordon looks up and over Benrey's shoulder, tearing his eyes from the PS-Vista screen held between them, with a questioning look. Bubby's still standing in the kitchen, leaning over the counter, seemingly engaged in a staring match to the death with the stainless steel toaster.

"With?"

"I need to get rid of this fucking toaster"

Gordon rolls his eyes, and heaves himself off the couch. "And can I ask why the hell we'd do that?"

"Because we don't _need_ it" Bubby snaps.

Benrey chuckles faintly, before ducking down, hunching over his console and pulling his hood further over his face. He turns toward the wall and pretends he can't hear them. Gordon would be getting no help from him, the bastard.

So damage control falls back to Gordon. Typical.

Gordon spares a glance at Bubby, who's finally turned to face him, and he is just _seething_. He looks ready to rip somebody apart… over a toaster. A 2 slotted toaster Gordon had found for Dr. Coomer and Bubby on Craigslist. A _toaster_.

Yeah, that's not right. Gordon knows Bubby relatively well, (well enough to know that he's childish and petty, and not above holding a grudge… but not this petty). Gordon knows he's not that angry about a fucking toaster. That's not really _it_. There's more to it than that. There's something else, festering beneath.

The only issue is getting him to admit to it.

"Uh huh. Now what's the real reason?"

Bubby scowls bitterly, arms crossed.

He huffs and puffs and refuses to look at Gordon. "I heard Harold talking about how great it is" 

_It's not_. It's not better than him... which is why Bubby can't understand for the life of him why he keeps looking at it like it's a godsend or something. It just toasts bread, whatever. Bubby can do that too. 

In fact, he can do it ten times better, god dammit.

Bubby can't help but pout, staring at it even harder, "It's a Cuisinart Compact 2 Slice Toaster. It's Stainless Steel, and has Defrost and Motorized Lift functions. It even has an LED display" He scoffs loudly, shaking his head, "Come on Harold, this really isn't that impressive. I've got- I mean, I uh... I've seen better"

Benrey, clearly having been listening, burst into laughter, huge huffing guffaws, PS-Vista totally forgotten beside him. He goes on for a good couple minutes, face in his hands and whole body shaking, before he finally glances upwards with tears smeared all over his face.

"oh my god, dude, are you jealous of a toaster?"

Bubby's fists clench, and his whole face goes red. He snarls at Benrey, sharp teeth on full display.

"No, I'm not jealous of a shitty ass, bullshit little toaster. Do you realise how stupid that sounds?"

Gordon snickers. "Ohh, he _is._ He's jealous of the toaster. Wow, I never thought I'd be saying that. Wow"

"Both of you shut the hell up" And Bubby stands up, and sweeps from the room with a hiss… but uh, not before knocking the toaster over.

Gordon laughs some more.

* * *

"What happened to the toaster?" Dr. Coomer asks the next morning, staring at the smoldering lump of metal that was, indeed, the remains of their poor toaster.

Benrey shrugs, feet up on the table, thumbs slamming PS4 buttons.

"Idunno"

"Ask your pal Bubby" Gordon shudders and shuffles out of the room. A piece of his burnt shirt falls to the floor.


	3. Impressed Yet?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bubby tries to impress Dr. Coomer. It goes as well as you'd expect it to.

Bubby finds that Harold P. Coomer is very easily impressed. 

He outlines a relatively simple theory in quantum physics to the man, one he'd thought of in just a few hours the previous night, and his eyes literally light up, and he's telling Bubby how much of a genius he is, with a laugh of triumph. Bubby doesn't mention that it'd been child's play, coming up with it.

Dr. Coomer congratulates him on how well he structures the formula for mass-energy equivalence. Even though it's what he was born to do, and it comes nearly as easy as breathing. Bubby's brow furrows, because who the heck congratulates you on doing your _job_ (on doing what you were _made to do_ ). That's fucking stupid. It's not special.

But Dr. Coomer makes it feel special. Which is so confusing. 

Bubby's handlers keep him under surveillance for days. Watching what he can do, a lab rat beneath their stage light. He stands in the middle of the abandoned laboratory, tubes still attached to his back and shoulders, and just writes. Complex formulas are scribbled down in seconds, flying out of Bubby's mind as fast as he can record them with the rudimentary writing utensil provided.

His handlers just watch, writing notes of their own. They do not speak to him, nor congratulate him. He never hears a, good job. They are not impressed.

That does not bother Bubby. He's doing what he's meant to. Being what he's meant to be.

Then Harold comes along, after a dozen discarded partners, and for the first time ever, Bubby hears, 'wow, you did good'. Harold gets bright eyed and absolutely delighted, whenever Bubby comes to a long sought after answer after a much longer day. And at first, Bubby thinks he's an idiot, for it.

Eventually, though, Bubby finds it to be one of the many things he appreciates about Dr. Coomer.

He also finds that Harold P. Coomer is one of the few people he _wants_ to be impressed with him.

That's difficult for Bubby to adjust to, honestly. To wanting to make someone other than himself happy.

He sits at his desk, absorbed in his work (definitely not thinking up ways he can impress his new lab partner, because that'd be stupid, and Bubby is a genius). He's not spending all his mental energy scheming up ways he can get another glimpse of that awe filled grin. Absolutely not.

He just _happens_ to remember that Harold hasn't seen him use his pyromancy yet. And it's a complete coincidence when he considers that maybe, just maybe, now would be a good time to show him.

"Get a load of this, Dr. Coomer" And it's absolutely not like a little kid saying, _hey, come look at me_. He's not showing off or anything. Absolutely not trying to impress him. Cause that's dumb.

Harold does turn to look at him, and Bubby feels a soaring sense of satisfaction as Dr. Coomer directs all his attentions toward him.

He grins.

Then he snaps his fingers, and a little sputtering flame ignites between his fingertips, dancing and swaying. It colors his face firepoker red in the half darkness of their shared laboratory, makes his sharp teeth glint. Dr. Coomer expresses astonishment, green eyes bright with excitement, ever so glassy from the fire's light. 

"Wow" He exclaims, inching closer, and his face is suddenly swamped with warmth, bright orangey light sticking in the creases of his skin, further rounding out already round features, highlighting dark brown stubble running from his neck up to his lower jaw. Harold was almost always clean shaven, but the last few days had been hectic, so he had not been able to shave like he would have liked (not that Bubby's complaining. It gives him a rugged look, a huge contrast to the medical tidiness of their lab. There's a sheen to his thick brown mustache, brought out so nicely by the fire).

Bubby can even see faint freckles, across his cheeks and peppering the bridge of his nose. He'd never noticed them before, and he can't help but consider how much of a travesty that truly is. Dr. Coomer smiles at him.

His mouth has gone dry. The fire flickering between his fingers roars softly, gaining size and heat, tips a brilliant blazing blue.

"Incredible! How do you do it, Bubby? Is your skin heat resistant? Are you insulated, or thermoduric?" Dr. Coomer asks.

Bubby swallows thickly. "Well uh, my skin is impervious to high temperatures. The cells actually store extra heat to be expended later, to allow me to combust at will. I just learned how to control it recently"

"Utterly fascinating" He reaches his hand out, slow, tentative, eyes almost imploring, "Um… May I?" 

And he experimentally touches Bubby's arm, featherlight and faint, as if he may be burnt. Bubby nods jerkily, several moments too late, absolutely enthralled as he watches Harold's calloused fingers brush his arm. His cheeks burn, and he hardly manages to stutter out a response.

"A-Alright"

"You're skin is cooler than I expected" Harold observes.

He looks up for a moment, and Bubby is pinned by his gaze.

Bubby can smell the smoldering of fabric. The scent is faint at first, and Bubby's so caught up in Harold's look of fascination he ignores it. Adamant that it's nothing surely. Then he sees smoke, and the burn of fire singes his nostrils.

Something's burning.

The fire in his hands is flaring erratically, roaring into life. And then his whole arm is bursting into flame, white hot, eating away at his lab coat sleeve. Dr. Coomer rears back with a yelp, and Bubby falls backward in his chair, waving his arm around in a panic. 

That breaks him out of his spell.

"Holy fuck! Grab the fire extinguisher, Harold" Bubby shouts.

Dr. Coomer nods, and rushes to the emergency fire extinguisher, yanking it off the wall with a grunt. He runs back, extinguisher heaved over his head. His long ass brown hair fizzes out behind him like a cloud.

"I have it!"

He fumbles with the nozzle for a moment, before a torrent of white foam sprays forth, soaking everything in front of him, including Bubby. Harold's knocked back a few inches.

"It's everywhere!" Bubby shouts.

"Make sure you get my back, and my elbow" He peeks at the singed edge of his lab coat, and sees a lingering flicker of fire, "Right here, Harold"

"Aye, Captain!" Dr. Coomer exclaims, and he directs the spray of the extinguisher in that general direction.

Bubby sighs in relief. 

He's covered in white foam, but thankfully, he is no longer on fire. Yep, fire is gone. He quickly takes stock of his person. Everything is still in order. The sleeve of his lab coat is burnt up to his elbow, but that's nothing surprising, or too alarming. He'd burnt up a lot of lab coats in the last couple weeks. He waves it off.

In theory, it'd be coming out of his salary, but it's not as if he gets paid, anyway. So who gives a fuck?

He wipes the foam off his face with the side of his arm, coughing up some. Dr. Coomer heaves a little sigh of relief, slumping against his desk.

A pang of guilt does sting in his chest, at that. He bits the inside of his cheek, and his tone is almost sheepish when he turns to address Dr. Coomer, "Sorry, that usually works better"

"It's fine, Dr. Bubby. The crisis has been successfully averted!" Dr. Coomer smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his ears. He hisses sharply, automatically reaching up toward his other hand, which is tucked into his side.

The fuck? Something was clearly wrong with him.

Bubby gasps with concern, and immediately reaches for the appendage, snatching it into his grip before he can think to ask for permission.

"Are you alright?" He asks. Dr. Coomer opens his mouth to protest, stubbornly determined he's fine, big smile plastered on his face. Bubby ignores him.

"It's nothing, Bubby. Just a little nick" Harold says, but his voice quivers.

Bubby turns his hand over. His skin is badly blistered, his palm and fingers, every place of direct contact, angry red and burnt. Bubby's stomach coils with discomfort.

"You're burnt, Harold. That's not fucking nothing" Bubby inhales sharply through his nose, and presses a hand to his temple. Guilt and concern mixes into a deadly cocktail that makes his tongue feel like fucking lead in his mouth.

"Now I am going to clean this up, and you are going to let me. You aren't gonna give me a hard time, or try to convince me you aren't hurt, so you can go crawl off and try to half ass bandage it up yourself with one hand and whatever shit you have sitting around in your dorm. Are we clear?"

Dr. Coomer laughs, defeated and a little put out. "Okay. Work your magic, _Doctor_ Bubby"

Bubby laughs as well, rough with worry, "Are you mocking me?"

"Never. I would never, Bubby"

"Good, because I just might leave you like that, otherwise"

* * *

Harold hums faintly, just barely loud enough to be heard over the running faucet. Bubby firmly holds his hand under the spray of cold water rushing out of the lab's emergency sink. Bubby always wondered why the fuck it was there, ugly orange and with those big rubbery handles, considering they only dealt in the hypothetical, the theoretical. There were no mystery chemical spills or noxious gas leaks, at least not in their lab, so in theory there was no need for it. Now, Bubby's just thankful it's here.

Bubby can't tell what he's humming. It's soft and sweet, and familiar. Bubby tries hard not to think about it. He also tries not to look at Harold, either staring at the hand he's disinfecting, or gazing at the equations scrawled across the chalkboards on the opposite side of the room. There's an empty spot in the middle of one, a place for an answer they haven't been able to figure out.

"It _was_ amazing" Dr. Coomer says, after several moments of hum filled, almost silence, "What you can do is just incredible"

Bubby grumbles, gently dabbing at blistered skin with disinfectant, "But you still got burnt"

"That doesn't make it any less incredible" He smiles warmly, "... just remarkable. Your remarkable"

Bubby blushes, but doesn't immediately respond. It doesn't sit right. Just how remarkable can he be, when he just injured the only person who even treats him like a person? And if he's so damn great, why does he feel like shit?

If he's so remarkable, why is Harold the only person to have ever noticed?

"Yeah, right" Bubby spits out gruffly, reaching for the bandages.

Dr. Coomer beats him to the punch, and grabs them off the table with his good hand. When he hands them to Bubby, their fingers touch, and it takes everything Bubby has in him not to squeak.

He takes the bandages with a, thank you, muttered under his breath. His movements are painstakingly careful as he spreads the salve (home made, the same concoction he used to treat his own burns), before beginning to wrap the bandage around his palm. He's still muttering, tone filled with acid, hands faintly trembling.

Harold is just gazing at him, back down at his hand, back up at him, with those big, intelligent green eyes. 

His brow furrows, and recognition dawns big and bright on his face.

"Are you worried about me, Bubby?"

He pauses in wrapping the bandage, clicks his tongue, wonders how Harold managed to hit the nail on the head so well, before returning to wrapping as if nothing had happened.

He shakes his head.

"What, no" He rolls his eyes, "I just need my lab partner in functioning order. If you lose that hand you won't be able to write, and then I'll have to write all the notes, and you know my handwriting is god awful"

Which was such an odd exception, because everything else Bubby did was always exceptional.

"Yes, truly atrocious. Trying to read your writing is like trying to decipher hieroglyphics!" Coomer shakes his head, laughing, "...So I absolutely need this hand"

Bubby ties off the bandage with a resolute nod, and tries not to smile. That's basically impossible with Dr. Coomer though. So after a moment, he decides, why even bother.

And he grins like an idiot.  
  



	4. Burn 'Em Up!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revenge is better served cold. In other news, Bubby is determined to be Dr. Coomer's knight in shining armor... Or something like that.

"He doesn't get to say that kind of shit to you" Bubby snarls, hands clenched so tight his claw like nails puncture the skin of his palms. 

He's reminded of his handlers, looking down on him with disgusted sneers. Looking down on him like he's less than human (because he's a being, but he's their's. He's human, but he's also property, simply an experiment to be used at their discretion. He may be a scientist, but he was test tube grown, and unlike the doctors around him, he'll never be quite real).

Dr. Coomer wipes at the wet tears collecting at the edge of his eyes. His back arches, and he hunches even further in on himself. When he moves his hand down a shiny black eye is revealed, along with a cut across his lip.

He looks tired, and disillusioned. The usually jovial glint in his eye is gone, and the smile he wears is lopsided.

"I'm okay, Bubby. It's okay" And he hiccups, repeats it a couple times as if to convince himself.

Bubby's fists clench, and he growls, because it's not okay.

It's not okay. 

And Bubby plans on doing something about it.

* * *

Bubby's going to burn somebody up, like rotisserie. He isn't sure who, but somebody's getting it.

If Bubby had better mentors, scratch that, if Bubby had mentors, or authority figures or people who actually gave a fuck, someone probably would have sat him down early on and told him: remember, your pyromancy should never be used to reap revenge on your enemies, no matter how much you want to because moral reasons, yada, yada, the greater good, responsibility, whatever, blah blah, etc. 

As circumstances stood, Bubby didn't have a mentor, so that lesson went unheeded.

He grabs Neil Hanson, guard of 27 years and head of security, by the collar and yanks him out of his car. He tumbles out with an angry shout, and falls on the parking lot cement like the spineless urchin he is.

"The fuck man!" He's already shouting, rubbing at his arm.

Bubby is livid.

"You the guy talking shit to my lab partner?"

"So what if I am?" Neil says, eyes narrowed.

And Bubby thinks, he could just keep talking to this guy. Quiz him until he admits to the awful things he'd said, grill him until he apologizes, (but fuck that. He doesn't care to hear some fucking useless ass, pointless, half assed apology, which didn't mean shit anyway). No, forget talking. Bubby's just going to _grill_ him.

Bubby lights up like a Christmas tree, combusting on the spot. And he burns that bastard up.

Neil wasn't going to be sitting comfortably for at least a few months. At least until the skin grew back. Did skin do that? Grow back? Just whole patches of it.

Probably not.

* * *

Anderson sighs, rolling his head in a tight circle, trying to get the crick out of his neck. A sign that he's stressed out. Bubby can't drum up a single ounce of compassion for him.

His head handler glares at him from over clasped hands.

"Do you regret it?" He asks, tone dripping with contempt.

Bubby's still stewing. The fire has been snuffed out for hours, but it feels like it's still dancing across his skin. He wants to bring it back, so badly. He looks up at Dr. Anderson with a defiant glare.

"I do not. Best damn decision of my life" He let's a little smile cross his face, "You should have seen the look on that dipshit's face. Fucking priceless"

He presses his hands to his temple, and is incredibly satisfied by the momentary look of fear that crosses Anderson's face. 

Bubby laughs.

* * *

Something still isn't right. Somehow, Bubby had thought that tearing that guy a new one would fix everything, and Harold would feel better, just like Bubby had, and he'd stop looking like a kicked puppy. That'd been foolish of him, he supposed.

It's still bothering him. Bubby can tell. It's little things, that let him know that something is distinctly wrong.

Dr. Coomer doesn't greet him at the door anymore. He walks around the lab with his head down, eyes trained on the floor. He looks distinctly _uncomfortable_ in his own skin.

Bubby hates every second of it.

"What did he say to you?" Bubby asks.

"It's nothing" Dr. Coomer says, a little too quickly. Bubby glares at him, and Harold amends the statement, "Nothing I can't handle"

 _I'm strong_. Bubby knows he is. He knows Harold could carry the whole world on his shoulders, if need be. He is Atlas, if he wore a lab coat and was 5' 3". 

Bubby knows he can struggle through on his own.

That doesn't mean he should have to.

"It's clearly messed you up" He hisses, and he gently clasps Dr. Coomer's hand in his. Harold is almost forced to look at him. He clearly doesn't want to.

Bubby pushes onward anyway. "What's that thing you always say, about how I can always come to you, no matter what? That I can talk to you at any time of the day or night, because you're listening? Well, I'm _listening_ , and you should really talk to me"

"I did say something like that, didn't it?" His laugh isn't nearly as light as usual. It's weighted, by some pain Bubby can't properly perceive.

"Several somethings" Bubby pauses, smirks smugly, "Practice what you preach"

Harold shifts uncomfortably.

"Mr. Hanson had a number of things to say about how, um, real I am. Or, more accurately, how fake he believes me to be" and he's worrying a long section of hair between his fingers, as he says that, eyes focused on anything but the man beside him.

Bubby's brow furrows, "I don't understand"

A bitter laugh bubbles out of his throat, "He had a number of choice words. Abomination, being amongst them. Perhaps... he's right. Perhaps it's not natural… I'm not natural"

Bubby immediately jumps to reassure him. He has no idea what he's talking about, honestly, but he can see how deflated he's getting, how upset he is. And regardless of what he's talking about, what he's saying doesn't sound right. Dr. Coomer, an abomination? Bullshit.

If Harold is an abomination, then Bubby's the f-ing devil, because Harold is so much better than he is. He's better than everyone in this gosh darn facility, in fact.

"You shouldn't listen to a word that jackass says. He's never right, okay?"

Bubby wraps his arms around Harold's thick middle, in the hopes of making him feel better. Dr. Coomer lets out a broken little sob.

"It's taken me so long, to become who I am now… to be happy in my own skin" He shuts his eyes, and says rather quietly, "You know, I haven't always been Harold Coomer, right? I wasn't born a man"

It's uttered quietly, like an embarrassing secret. Bubby takes a moment to process that information.

He's being judged because of how he was born? That's fucking stupid. Bubby should know.

 _He_ wasn't _born_ at all.

"Why should that matter? I don't care about that" He pauses, when he sees Dr. Coomer shudder, turning slightly away. Okay, not the right thing to say.

"Look, you are and always will be Harold to me, okay?" He says, because that's the truth.

Harold still looks miserable, but Bubby can see a shimmer of hope in those green eyes. He's scrabbling to reach it, to take it up within his grasp. "Are you certain it doesn't bother you? It uh, upsets a lot of people"

"Most people are stupid" Bubby barks out with a deprecating laugh.

Dr. Coomer laughs too, and Bubby starts to see the edges of that signature, face splitting smile of his for the first time that morning.

"Oh yes, isn't that the truth!"

And Bubby thinks, for the first time in days, that, you know, everything might be alright.

  
  



	5. It's Tradition, Man!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Coomer fails to have Bubby's back, but it's cool. All's fair in love and war. Also, Gordon gets in the way of tradition.

He may be theirs, but now Harold is his, and Bubby is Harold's.

That's quite a comforting thought.

Bubby turns it over in his mind, late at night, when he's alone in his solitude, surrounded by sterile lab equipment, staring up at fluorescent lights dangling above him. Harold is his. But it's not like the way Black Mesa owns him, because they are each other's. 

It's mutual. It's a choice.

And god, he was in _love_.

And what better way to show it, than to share something near and dear to his heart?

"I'd like to introduce you to this game I like to play. Well, it's more like sport, really" Bubby pauses, but Dr. Coomer's inquisitive expression quickly spurs him on, "Basically, I try to set as many things on fire as possible without getting caught"

Harold puts the pencil in his hand down, grin wide and shining. "How exciting! That's certain to get our blood pumping"

Bubby smiles in turn. "I'll be setting the fires. You could be my lookout… if you'd like"

Dr. Coomer presses his hand to his heart, bowing, or at least as well as he can, over his desk. "I would be honored"

* * *

The server room is dark, the only sound the faint electrical hum of the computers. Bubby and Harold sit crouched behind a row of servers, staring at the single guard stationed in the middle of the room.

"How long do you usually have to wait?"

"Ten minutes at the most. This motherfucker can't stay awake to save his life" A few seconds pass, and then Bubby smirks, "He's asleep now. Let's go"

They run from behind the servers, Bubby running around the side and Coomer vaulting over the top. Bubby presses his fingers to his temple and the first server in a long line of them on the far wall catches on fire.

In a few minutes, three more have followed suit. 

The guard wakes up, wide eyed and horrified, at the smell of smoke and the sight of the fire. He falls out of his chair with a horrified little gasp, already fumbling for the radio at his belt. Half the room is up in flames at that point.

Dr. Coomer waves Bubby over from the other side of the room, pointing at the guard, who has yet to notice him. He makes sure to use the agreed upon hand motion, since calling each other's names for everyone to hear would be pretty fucking stupid.

Time to bounce, then.

They both rush off, giggling and heaving. Bubby's brow is laden with sweat, from the heat and all the running, and he's tired, but he can't stop grinning like an idiot.

"What a rush!" Dr. Coomer shouts, wiping the sweat from his forehead. His face gleams under fluorescent lights.

Bubby swallows audibly, and takes off his glasses, which have fogged up from all the moisture. He wipes them off with the hem of his lab coat. 

"You haven't seen anything yet"

  
  


* * *

"You were serious, weren't you?"

"About what?"

"About having a damn kid. I thought you were fu-" Joshua skips into the room then, from the kitchen, freshly baked chocolate chip cookies in hand, one already half gnawed. Bubby scowls, clears his throat, and quickly corrects himself, eyes still trained on Joshua, "funking messing with us"

It's deliberately half-assed, because Bubby rarely has to filter what he says, and he doesn't particularly like doing it… so if he has to suffer, so does everyone else.

Darnold actually cringes. Benrey laughs quietly into his hand. Gordon glares disapprovingly, but perhaps not as disapprovingly as he would have if Bubby actually let it rip.

Dr. Coomer nods in approval.

"Excellent save, Bubby dear! No one will ever know the difference" He grins cheerfully, and Bubby knows he's just toying with him.

He doesn't deem that worthy of a response.

Joshua crosses into the living room, bolting for where Gordon lay seated in front of the couch like a little man on a mission, "Daddy, Daddy!"

He calls, little hands flapping.

"Yeah, bud?"

"Can I play games with Benny, pretty please" He rocks on the balls of his feet, gap toothed smile shining, puppy dog eyes on full display, "I already brushed my teeth and put on my jammies, and _everything_ "

Gordon makes a noise in the back of his throat as if considering, smiling faintly, before agreeing, "Okay. But only 30 minutes and then off to bed"

"Okay!"

Gordon nods at Benrey, who stands up with a nod in kind, stretches, and then turns to lead Joshua out of the room

"come on little dude. let's play some scribble, scrabble" Benrey nods, "gonna make a bajillion point word-"

Gordon turns to Bubby once they've walked out of earshot, expression exasperated. "No, I wasn't messing with you"

"Then how come we've been here a whole week, and we're just now seeing him? Have you been hiding him in the utility closet or some shit?"

"I d-don't think that's allowed, Bubby" Tommy pipes up.

"He's been at his other parent's house, damn" Gordon huffed, "He was already with them, and I thought it was best he stayed there until things got settled again"

"I also wasn't excited about bringing him back, with you guys hanging around" He pauses briefly, grimacing a bit, "You aren't the best influences"

And Gordon's absolutely glaring at Bubby specifically when he says this. As if that impresses Bubby or something.

Bubby glares right back, and flips him off, for good measure.

It's bullshit. Bubby is a _great_ influence.

"That is unarguably correct!" Dr. Coomer exclaims, giggling.

Bubby can feel the sharp sting that statement brings, ripping through his heart like a hot steel hook, because Harold was supposed to be on his side, dammit. Dr. Coomer _always_ had his back. 

Just like he had Harold's.

Bubby bites off more than he can chew, and ends up surrounded by a group of angry, snarling bikers. He knows he's very well screwed, and prepares himself to fight to the death, if needed. Then Dr. Coomer steps between them, and soon he and Bubby are back to back, boxing leather jacketed buffoons together. (It didn't really matter that Bubby had been in the wrong, in the first place. They vouched for each other, no matter what).

That's how it was supposed to be. Even in stupid, petty little arguments that amounted to nothing. Especially in petty little arguments that amounted to nothing.

That's when Bubby needed Harold backing him up the most.

Bubby growls, a look of pure betrayal crossing his face. "Who's side are you on?"

"The side of reason, dearest!"

Bubby rolls his eyes. 

What the heck was the world coming to? 

Him, a bad influence. As if.

  
  


* * *

Bubby actually really likes when little Joshua comes around, perhaps more than he'd expected to. The concept of children didn't usually appeal to him- the first thing that comes to mind is snot nosed little toddlers much too fascinated with sticking their fingers in their mouths, but Joshua doesn't fit that bill. 

Bubby is surprised when Joshua first calls him Baba. His eyes get big around the edges, and he has to bite his tongue to stop himself from laughing. Dr. Coomer repositions Joshua on his lap, big wide smile on his face, and Bubby, rather warm in the face now, continues telling his story like nothing happened.

Bubby laughs his ass off, when Joshua first calls Harold, Nana, though. Dr. Coomer gets all teary eyed, and he looks like it's the happiest moment of his life. Joshua wipes some of the tears away messily with his little four year old hands, smiling.

Yeah… Bubby's pretty fond of the kid.

He's rather intelligent for a kid his age, and immensely curious.

He reminds him a lot of Tommy, actually. 

He's also a really good partner in crime. Or at least he will be, once Bubby shows him the ropes.

"I don't know how to solve this, Nana" Joshua pouts, glaring at his half scribbled over math homework. it's fractions, those tough buggers.

Harold gazes over Joshua to stare at the sheet, brows furrowed. He frowns, before shrugging rather helplessly.

"Fractions have never been my strong suit. Bubby?"

"Let me see" Bubby glances over, but hardly even looks at the actual questions. He grunts irritably, "Here's how we fix that problem"

Harold's laughing at him, green eyes twinkling, the gleam in them almost feverish. He knows Bubby. He knows what he's planning, and he is _ready_.

Bubby presses his fingertips to the page with a smirk, and the edges start to burn, curling inward, and soon the whole page is lit in a raging little fire.

Joshua's eyes light up like starbeams.

The next week, Bubby leads Joshua with him into the kitchen. He presses his finger to his lips, hissing out a whispered shh. Joshua nods emphatically, dark brown eyes deathly serious, and steps as lightly as he can. At least, as light as a 5 year old can.

Bubby sneaks around the counter, and Joshua follows close behind. He isn't making little squeaking noises every time he steps anymore, which is good enough for Bubby. 

In and out.

Bubby identifies the target from across the room, a shiny new microwave put in a couple weeks ago. It'd make great target practice.

"Me and your Nana used to do this all the time" Bubby tells him, smirking fondly.

"Are there rules?" Joshua asks softly.

"Don't get caught"

Gordon walks in then, to see Bubby and Joshua crouched in the middle of the kitchen, sneaking around like a couple of idiots. Joshua stops in his tracks, and Bubby's head snaps around to stare at Gordon, like a deer in headlights. Weird.

And not in a good way.

"What the heck are you guys doing?" He glances around the room. Nothing's out of place, but Gordon can see what looks like a wisp of flame flickering between Bubby's fingers. Gordon glances at the scene before him one more time, puts two and two together, and scowls angrily. "Seriously, Bubby?" 

"It's tradition, Gordon" Bubby snaps defensively.

"I don't know why… why I thought you-" Gordon rolls his eyes, "I'm getting Dr. Coomer. At least he knows not to light fires around a child"

"Harold will be on my side" Bubby calls, as Gordon turns to leave the room.

"Whatever" Gordon turns toward Joshua, "Come on, let's go see Nana"

"And Benny?"

"Hmm. Yeah, probably Benny too"

"Let's go, buddy" Gordon takes Joshua's little hand in his larger one and they both walk out of the kitchen. Joshua turns to gaze at Bubby, and waves. 

Bubby winks at the kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got to update the tags for this fic. Ha. Anyway, hopefully yall enjoyed this. Last chap should be up in a couple days.


	6. I Gotcha, Fam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Science Team is attacked, and Bubby's having none of it. Also, Bubby lies to Gordon, but when was that new?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some violence in this chapter. I don't think it's particularly graphic, but thought I should give a warning.

Bubby's never had friends before. It's a weird concept honestly.

Yes, he has Harold, but Bubby doesn't really consider him a friend. He might have, once upon a time, but now things are different, and he can't imagine working without him in the lab beside him, singing and sipping coffee, and surely friend isn't a big enough word. Not when Harold is such a huge, immovable presence in his life.

Harold is something else entirely. A companion… confidant, or uh… Bubby can't think of the right word, to sum up what Harold is to him, a word that's really vast enough to encapsulate all he means, but that's beside the point. Harold is definitely not on the friends list.

Tommy isn't either, but that's only because he's known the kid since he was like, 6, and something about watching a person go through 7 shirts sizes really changes the dynamic. 

Yeah, Bubby's fond (very fond) of Tommy, but friend isn't the right word to describe him either.

Bubby's first friend, surprisingly, comes in the form of Benrey.

Benrey had stopped him in front of his lab, and refused to let Bubby enter.

"you got uh, playstation plus? you uh, willin' to split?" Benrey asks, ten minutes in.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Bubby had snapped, before elbowing past him. Benrey followed him on his heels into the lab, blowing a continuous raspberry.

"Go away," Bubby yells, once he's at his desk. Benrey does literally everything under the sun, except that.

Jackass, Bubby thinks, as he watches the silly guard tap at the glass whiteboard across the room.

He couldn't stand him, right at first, but the guard quickly grew on him. He's a bastard. But not the self satisfied sort, who thinks he's _better_ than him. Like every idiot scientist Bubby's ever met (Benrey is not a scientist, and isn't plagued by that arrogance so common amongst them). He's more of a delinquent, than anything else.

And Benrey had no use for Black Mesa, which was enough for Bubby. He could get used to him being around.

Then came Gordon, who Bubby liked considerably less. He's smug and full of himself, and he thinks he _knows_ everything. He also reminds Bubby a lot of himself, (and there's really only space for one Bubby in anyone's life).

But he's a friend, still, even if he pisses Bubby off, sometimes. Bubby has those now, friends.

Friends: People who stick by your side, who would do anything for you, and who you'd do anything for, in return.

* * *

"Oh my god!" Gordon screams, looking like his eyes are about to fall out of his head they're bugging so bad, "Were you just on fire?"

Bubby's brow furrows, because surely Gordon already knows he can do this. Everyone already knows. It's in his file for Pete's sake, on the second line or something. It's not a _secret_. (Nothing about Bubby is a secret. He has no secrets).

He looks around, and it's clear by everyone's expression that he's not joking. Dr. - it sounds stupid, to Bubby, calling this inexperienced kid a Doctor, but whatever - Freeman, really has no idea about his… peculiarities.

It's also obvious that none of the others have any intentions of explaining for Bubby. Tommy's off somewhere else, and Dr. Coomer's gazing at him expectantly, and Benrey is… well, who gives a fuck what Benrey's doing, he would have been of no help anyway.

"Yeah. But I'm fine" Bubby says, staring at his hands, "No serious damage here"

"I didn't know you could do that" Gordon says, and he still sounds absolutely appalled, just surprised out of his mind.

Gordon really doesn't know. He thinks he's normal. Bubby decides, right at that very moment, that he wants to keep it that way.

"Yeah, me neither" Bubby lies, and he leaves it at that.

* * *

Dr. Coomer raises an eyebrow at him, later that day. 

There's a silent question. It begs for a response, but doesn't force Bubby to give one if he doesn't wish to. Harold was always considerate, like that. He never pushes Bubby.

Bubby shrugs, a bit uncertainly, because something about the shine in Harold's eye seems accusatory, like Bubby did something wrong. "He didn't know. Didn't feel like explaining that shit to him"

"You lied to our-" Bubby hardly reacts to the _our,_ because everything, was _we_ and _ours_ and _us,_ these days, but the word _lied_ definitely stings. Harold sees the look on his face, hesitates, and then starts anew, "You lied, to our new friend"

"Lies do not make the foundations of a good friendship" Harold adds, in that sharply edged way that tells Bubby he's genuinely agitated.

"Well damn Harold, I, I know that. I just… this is the first time I get to _choose_ if I want to tell, or when I want to tell. I never got a choice before. It was just, look, this is 3UB3Y, here's the fucking file"

Now that Bubby has a choice, he isn't sure he's ever going to tell him. He doesn't particularly want to endure one more person staring at him, looking at him like he's a thing, as opposed to a human being (everyone who sees that file sees Bubby as a useful, powerful tool, as a monster needing containment, as a specimen to be studied, but never as a person. Dr. Coomer is the only exception, and Bubby doesn't think Gordon is as exceptional as Harold. As kind. Understanding. Who the fuck is, really? It's an impossible standard to compare anyone to).

Bubby doesn't trust Freeman, yet.

"I… I think I understand… He's not going to like it when he finds out" Harold says, but he's already giggling at the thought.

Bubby shrugs, "Motherfucker should learn to read" 

"Oh my goodness, Bubby"

"New friends, fresh start, right?"

Dr. Coomer considers, and seems to decide he likes the sound of that. He nods, with a little smile playing across his face.

"Yes, fresh start, Bubby dear"

* * *

Bubby doesn't _tell_ Gordon. He finds out on his own, instead.

It's a frustrating predicament, honestly.

The soldiers the military sent are, unsurprisingly, very well armed. They're considerably better armed than the Science Team, who'd scavenged their weapons from the leftovers discarded by dead guards and security officers, who, also, totally unsurprisingly, only had low caliber pistols that served better as deterrent than anything else.

They could kill, if need be, but it takes skill. And the soldiers had M16s, which really doesn't compare.

They don't stand a chance. Them, against the entirety of the US Military. Or at least, they shouldn't.

They don't know who they're messing with.

They wake up to the awful sound of gunfire. The bastards have ambushed them, like the cowards they all are. 

Gordon is the first on his feet, crowbar in hand, because apparently he plans on bashing someone in the face without getting shot in the head first, somehow. Tommy's ears are covered, as he scrambles out of his makeshift bedroll, but his gun is already in hand. 

Benrey's already gone, because he always manages to disappear whenever trouble, true trouble, rears its ugly head.

Dr. Coomer is pressed to Bubby's side, rifling through lab coat pockets as they all rush to cover. The bullets are coming fast, and heavy, and don't look like they're going to stop anytime soon. Bubby's pretty sure they've got a fucking machine gun, dang!

"How'd they find us, shit" Bubby shouts, back up against a stone pillar. He can hear the sound of bullets, lodging into the concrete.

"Ah, ha!" Coomer exclaims triumphantly, yanking his pistol out of his coat, "Found it"

"Suit tracking, i-in, in the hev suit" Tommy suggests, "it has a uh, GPS chip. For easy retrieval"

"Why the fuck do they need that?" Gordon asks, voice shrill, "Retrieval? I'm shitting wearing it"

"For if you die, dumbass" Bubby shouts, looking behind him, and he sees a whole throng of soldiers, bustling about like ants, there's so many. He gulps, and turns back forward. 

"You think those suits are cheap?"

Gordon blanched, looking a little sick. "If I die? Yeah, thanks Bubby, that's what I need to be thinking about right now. While we're all being shot at. I need to be thinking about dying"

Bubby grunts. It looks like things may come to that.

"They can't fire forever, boys!" Dr. Coomer says cheerfully, "Their magazines will go empty, and then they'll have to reload, eventually!

As if on cue, the gunfire abruptly pauses. Bubby turns and fires off a few bullets. There's one or two shouts of pain behind them. Tommy turns, and pops off a couple bullets as well, and exactly two screams sound.

Then the gunfire starts anew, and they all flatten themselves back behind cover.

It goes on like this for ten minutes. They're not winning, but they're not losing. But they're not winning, and they can't just sit here forever exchanging bullets.

They're outnumbered and pretty screwed.

Tommy gets frustrated, first, and rushes from the giant steel crate he'd tucked himself behind. Gordon tries to grab him, and curses very loudly when Tommy manages to escape his grasp, his fingertips just barely brushing the man's lab coat.

Dr. Coomer immediately becomes distressed, big green eyes horrified, and rushes behind Tommy without a second thought (or a single thought, for that matter).

Bubby starts panicking, because they are outgunned and outnumbered, and there's nothing they can do with these tiny guns they have. 

They can't fight back, not like this.

They can't win like this.

Bubby stands up, and rushes from behind the cement pillar. He hadn't been particularly upset before. Inconvenienced. Annoyed, maybe. He didn't like being sneaked up on, and he was pissed, but he wasn't _upset_.

Of course, they'd had cover. 

Now, they're shooting at them. They're shooting _at_ his _family_. Bullets flying, at Harold and Tommy, and now Gordon.

And now Bubby is rightfully pissed. 

Bubby can't let that stand. He can't. He won't.

No one hurts his friends. His family.

Bubby stops in front of the horde of soldiers, putting himself between them and the others. His gait is steady and confident.

He's ready to kill some fuckers.

Bubby raises a hand, and a solid wall of fire rushes from the floor, cracking through the concrete like hellfire. It hisses and roars, as bullets impact it, melting them to nothing in seconds. The fire consumes, ravenous as Bubby's fury.

The other three stumble back, surprised by the sudden wall of burning hot fire now bisecting the room. And it is _hot_ , broiling, searing like the sun's surface, even a couple foot's distance away.

Dr. Coomer looks afraid, for a moment, gazing up at him with wide eyes.

"Bubby? Dear?" He swallows.

Bubby doesn't hear him. His eyes are cloudy with hellfire, burning in their sockets, irises aglow. All he sees are the puny little ants before him, the one's he's going to burn alive. 

Everything's red. Red. Red. Red. Bubby loves it.

Bubby throws his palm outward, and the fire follows his command, rushing in a whirlwind, pulled through a vacuum, slamming against the back wall and curling in waves, incinerating everything in sight, eating and eating away. The smell of flesh is putrid and satisfying, and Bubby continues feeding more fuel to the fire. The tips of his fingers are already starting to burn, and the rush of heat from his palm is endless.

There's a weight at his arm, heavy calloused hands clasping around his elbow. Bubby hardly registers the contact.

"Bubby, that's enough, okay? That's enough" It's Harold, pressing to his side, even if he is unpleasantly warm, "You can stop"

Bubby doesn't want to stop. He doesn't want to stop. He wants them all to suffer. He wants to keep going until there's nothing left of them, until all that remains is a layer of ash he can crush beneath his heels like dirt.

Bubby's eyes flash brighter. The fire flares hotter.

Harold grabs Bubby's hand, prying at his fingers. He hisses in pain, grits his teeth against the bloom of heat, but doesn't let go.

Bubby finally looks down, and is surprised to see Dr. Coomer staring up at him, eyes wet. His brows furrow, when he realizes he's, inadvertently, hurting him.

That stops him, finally. The feverish, hungry glow in his eyes dissipates, after a moment, and the fire simmers away into greasy smoke.

Nothing's left but dead bodies, charred beyond recognition.

"Sorry" He mutters, and he finally breathes, "Sorry. That was… I went too far"

And he is sorry. Not to the dead soldiers, not really, but for distressing them. Harold, and the others.

Tommy stumbles to his feet, looking lightheaded, and a little shaken up. Gordon's still on his back, dazed.

"No. Don't, don't feel bad. You were protecting us" Dr. Coomer smiles, and the look is airy, satisfied, almost, for the shortest of moments. 

"I just didn't want you to get carried away"

Harold gazes at the soldiers, and Bubby gets the sense that, even though they attacked them, he still _feels_ for them.

And Bubby isn't surprised. He smiles faintly. Dr. Coomer always had been better than him.

Harold really was his better half.

"That's why I have you" Bubby says quietly, and he sneaks a quick kiss on Harold's palm while the others aren't looking, soft and faint on the tender burn mark. Another silent apology, since Bubby knew Harold wouldn't let him say it aloud again.

Always on about, don't beat yourself up, or whatever.

Harold laughs. He's always laughing, of course.

Bubby's heart flares, but it's such a different flare from the one just moments before. Just as good, of course. Better, even.

Bubby intertwines their fingers, and drags Dr. Coomer back toward the others, who are still collecting their bearings.

* * *

Gordon has not gotten up yet, when Bubby and Dr. Coomer reach them. He's still laid out on his back.

Bubby raises a brow, and gazes at Tommy, who's seated on the top of a forklift, looking down on the scene below.

"Mr. Freeman is taking a nap right now. He said he wished not to be disturbed" Tommy calls, grinning. It's a joke clearly, because Gordon is turning over, eyes wide open.

He looks a bit bewildered, when he sees Bubby. Like he's seeing him for the first time or something.

Bubby reaches his hand down toward Gordon, huffing in frustration, looking away like helping him is an awfully difficult chore. Gordon, while clearly still dumbstruck, is not so dumbstruck that he can't move. He claps his hand into Bubby's, and old or not, Bubby lifts him off his ass with one arm.

Gordon blinks at him, looking like he's trying to think up something to say. His mouth opens and closes like a fish, but no words come.

He looks... appalled?

Bubby turns away, stomach curling.

"Let's go. Gotta get a move on before we're found again or something"

And that's that.

* * *

Until it's not.

Gordon stumbles to catch up to Bubby, once they're a few corridors down, smiling awkwardly, hand at his neck. "Hey uh, just wanted to uh, say thank you for what you did back there. You know, for saving us. That was really cool. I, thanks"

"It's nothing" Bubby flushes, waves him off, "So stop talking about it"

He's satisfied, though. Surprised, that Gordon isn't frightened, or disgusted, and pleased, by the fact he wants to thank him.

He walks a little faster, so Gordon can't see he's smiling. He's taller than him, and his legs are longer, so he easily outpaces him.

Gordon jogs to catch up. "Really though, thanks. You didn't have to do that"

Really?

"Nonsense, dumbass" Bubby rolls his eyes, "One less person means one less gun, and we need every last ounce of fire power we can get"

Bubby doesn't admit that he wanted to.

He doesn't say that, yeah, he _had_ to do it. He also doesn't mention that Gordon doesn't _have_ to thank him.

Bubby loves praise, and he doesn't want Gordon to start being unappreciative when he does something for him… but he doesn't. He really doesn't.

Because that's what friends do for each other, right?

Risk their lives, like dumbasses? 

Yeah.

And loathe as Bubby is to admit it, sometimes, the Science Team are his friends.

Then he considers that, and amends the thought. They aren't just his friends. They're his _family_. Because he has that, now.

And you do anything for family.

Yeah. That sounds about right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! This has been fun. Thanks to everyone who read, commented, and left kudos. 
> 
> I'm really happy to have been able to take this journey with yall!


End file.
